Purge and Cleanse

Non, rien de rien
Non, je ne regrette rien
C'est payé, balayé, oublié
Je me fous du passé

— Edit Piaf

That soup I last mentioned nearly killed me. It didn't come in the form of a large and slow moving Torb, nor soup either, but as an innocent bowl of rice, spinach, and chickpeas. Innocent but hardly innocuous. And so sick I was, vomiting for almost 12 straight hours, dropping 5 pounds, and taking days to recover. There is though a certain thrill to surviving a blow like that -- a Darwinian high, let's call it, and to do it alone too, but that didn't last too long.

Next in the queue would be my cat, Vegas, getting equally sick. A sympathy illness perhaps? I don't know, but I am happy to report that she seems to be recovering and my $10/day tab of laundry seems to have run it's course with the illnesses.

So now what? Recovered and still in the new year, I forge ahead, redoubling efforts at redoubled intervals, onward again -- it's a geometric progression that defies mathematical certainties to asymtopically approach the Point of No Return. New scripts, new hot contests, new cold query letters, repeated phone calls, fresh thoughts like paint in stale air. We will see what the breeze is like higher up. Where else is there to go?

It's so beautiful in Venice these days. I'm very thankful for where I live.